


Being Ted Grant

by CavannaRose



Series: Assorted DC Fics [1]
Category: Justice Society of America (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Inner Dialogue, Nostalgia, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4891168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ted Grant came into his own in the 1940s, became a boxer, a fighter, a man. Just flushing out these ideas from the comic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ted Grant wasn't a handsome man, not many in his profession were, not if they did their jobs. He mighta been once, but one too many knocks to the face and messed up any chance of a career in modelling. He snorted, running a hand through his curling black hair. Not that he'd ever consider that type of sissy stuff. Pop had raised him up tough, and the lessons had paid off in more ways than one. He scuffed his feet as he moved through the dark city streets, hands in his pockets. He'd wrestled with the City, and come out on top. Ted paused outside of a deli, leaning against an all too familiar lamppost. Here was the place he'd gotten his big break. Nothing fancy about it. He let his mind travel down memory lane...

It had been late, much like tonight. Rainy, cold... not the kind of evening anyone wanted to be out in. His mood had been just as lousy as the weather. The money from Pop's life insurance had finally run out, and he needed a job -- fast. Hearing raised voices he'd turned onto the street just in time to see a pack of schlepper's jump some sorry bloke. Ted hadn't hesitated, Pop hadn't paid for all those lessons so his son could watch some sorry mook get his backside whupped by lowlifes. He'd waded in, fists flying, until the hoodlums had taken off, far worse for wear. Only then did he recognize their victim as the one and only 'Socker' Smith. Admittedly, Ted had been a little starstruck, and you coulda knocked him over with a feather when the man invited him back to his training gym. A few months after that Ted had been a heavy-weight legend.

Ted sighed, shaking free of the nostalgia. Now the gym was his, and the headlining matches, but the cost had been too damned high. He missed Socker's dry humour and mocking commentary ringside, but there was more to his life than just the gloves. Stories of costumed defenders of the public had trickled down, even here, and Ted just hadn't been able to resist. A few months ago, Wildcat was born, doling out two fists of justice to the nertz of the unwary. He may not have been born to this city, but he'd made it his own. Sure they'd had their share of scandal, but he'd come out on top, just like Mom and Pop always said he would. Smiling to himself, Ted unlocked the door to his gym, _his gym_ , and sauntered inside. It felt like a good night for a workout.

Ted locked the gym's door behind him, taking a moment to lean against the wood, inhaling the scents of sweat and sawdust, sand and a faint coppery undertone of blood. Good, honest men had shed good, honest blood on the mat here, and that always settled his nerves. He moved through the gym, pulling the dangling chains to turn on the bare bulbs, lighting up the place. He liked that about his space, the back-to-basics feel all that exposed wood and glass gave it. As he moved further into /his/ gym, Ted felt his chest swell with pride. Sure it was just a few heavy bags, some benches and free weights, and a single raised practice ring, but it was all his. Of course, membership was predictably low and the place was only staying afloat due to him sinking nearly every dime he made in the real rings into it, but he was cutting costs by living in the back office. A man made sacrifices for his dreams.

Speaking of, Ted cracked his neck and moved back into the office, he had some paperwork to finish up before he got his own workout. Priorities and discipline were his mantra. Sitting at his desk, he took a moment to smile at the collection of pictures he had mounted on the wall. His inspirations. Mom and Pop, of course, in the central place of honour. They were the reason he was here, and he would never forget them. Then to either side the two boxers that were his greatest heroes. Socker Smith, for giving him his start, and eventually, this gym as well, and Battlin' Jack Murdock, a legend taken from them all too soon.

The first boxing match he'd ever been too had been Battlin' Jack versus some crusher whose name he couldn't even remember, but what a match it had been. He and his Pop had always religiously listened to the matches on the radio, but here he was, seeing one live. Nothing matched being among the crowd, feeling the palpable excitement first hand, Pop sneaking him a sip of his beer between bouts. He remembered how crushed he had been to see Battlin' Jack defeated, even claiming he wasn't gonna be his favourite anymore. Pop had gone real quiet, not saying anything until they were on the long train ride home. Pop wasn't a particularly loquacious man, but what he said on that train resonated with Ted still.

"Son, I'm gonna tell you something and I want you to not just listen, but to hear me, you got that? If you pick your heroes based on who wins the most, you're like to be led astray and disappointed. Pick your heroes from men of honour, instead. Even when they lose, you'll know you made the right choice." He'd been young and confused, and had asked Pop how you could tell a man of honour from a regular feller. "Well Teddy-my-boy, I reckon it's different for everyone, you just gotta learn the feel of it, but take Battlin' Jack for instance. You know he's got a boy of his own, few years younger'n you maybe? You know he'll make the right choice on account of his son. A man with a boy looking on always wants to do right by him."

That was when he'd really thrown himself into the boxing lessons Pop had scrimped and saved for. That was when it became less of a hobby, and more of a passion; one that was still serving him well, both in the ring and in his new, late night hobby. Shaking off the nostalgia, a habit that was becoming all-too-common as of late, Ted buckled down to his paperwork, balancing his books in record time.

He wanted, no he _needed_ this workout tonight. Real work complete, he changed into a clean undershirt and a pair of shorts, grabbing his gloves by the office door. He paused, adjusting the knob on the radio until the smooth sounds of Nat Gonella and his Georgians filled the gym. Pulling on the gloves he picked out the heaviest of the punching bags. Soon the dull thud of glove on bag accompanied the sweet crooner on the radio. A sheen of sweat matted Ted's curls to his forehead, his focus intense. Jab, jab, uppercut. Dodge, weave, jab jab jab. The pace of his breathing heated up, his lungs demanding more and more oxygen as his blows became faster, fiercer, driven by the trumpets. The day's tensions melted away, nothing mattered but the bag, the gloves, the perfect sound of a connecting shot.

Ted snorted. He didn't understand people who thought boxing was about aggression. This was a dance, the only difference was that when you were in the ring this dance had a loser. He worked the bag until he was nice and limber, then moved to the free weights; priming his body, perfecting it. Late nights like these were the real joy of owning your own gym. He had a match this weekend to prepare for, and he'd spent far too much of today dealing with paperwork - the downside of owning your own gym. Still, he had a good head for business, and he had yet to take so many blows to the head that it knocked the numbers right out of his brainpan.

Logically he knew he had to find some way to get the gym solvent without the championship purses, and he was sure he could, he just wasn't there yet. At least he was finally flush enough to tuck a few pennies away for a rainy day. A boxer's shelf life was unpredictable, and he couldn't count on another lucky windfall to save him. Ted sighed, carefully replacing the weights. He'd gone and got himself all tense again, fussing about money and the future. He moved back over to the heavy bags, picking a slightly lighter weight with a little more give this time.

 

 

 


	2. Shakedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one messes with Ted Grant's business.

What a fight it had been! Ted came down from the ring pumped up on adrenaline and victory, the cheers of the crowd filling his heart almost as much as the coins from the championship purse filled his pockets. Jack Sharkey had been a tough opponent, but Ted had gotten in a beautiful haymaker just after the third bell and BOOM! Sharkey hit the mat and it was lights out. He hit the showers, still flush with his win, accepting congratulations and back slaps the whole way. It didn't matter how long he'd been in the business, winning a fight always made him float like a boy gone fishing.

Cleaned up and wearing his snazziest duds he hit the streets of the city. He'd made enough extra he could find a good clip-joint to duck into for a few drinks, and maybe a dance or two. His mug might not win the dames, but he wasn't giving them night terrors either. With a grin of self congratulations he sauntered along the dimming avenues, contemplating on how sweet life was turning out to be. Up ahead he heard some swingy beats drifting out along the quiet air, and turned his toes in that direction. Standing just outside The Cotton Club he took a moment to slide his hands through his hair, loosening his collar and checking his duds one last time. The place looked keen and he wanted to make a good impression. Ted took one more deep breath to bolster his self confidence, he hadn't been out on the town in a coon's age. Pushing open the door, he entered the building, letting the heat and sights and sounds wash over him in a wave.

Hours later, Ted was back at the gym, just about to lock up the night when a hand reached out, catching the door and holding it open. To say he was surprised, well that would be an understatement, but he backed up a step as a pair gentlemen stepped inside. He was dressed to go out, but even he didn't hold a candle to their snazzy hats and bow-ties. "Can I help you, gentlemen, the gym's closed for the night, but if you're thinking about membership I'll be back at eight o'clock in the morning."

The heavyset bloke let out a low chuckle, his pal moving to stand beside Ted. Now his Ma hadn't raised no fool, and the hackles on the back of his neck stood up. "Well Mister Grant, we're actually here to discuss the continued operation of your establishment here. My friend and I are selling... let's call it accident insurance. Everyone else on the block has invested, but it seems that we've had trouble tracking you down..."

"You can cut the crap right there, Mister. I won't be buying into your protection racket, and I think the rest of the street won't be for much longer anyway." Ted tried to remain cool, aloof, but he was agitated. Angry even. Who did these mooks think they were, shaking down honest folks for their hard earned coin? They certainly weren't going to get any of his.

The rotund man gripped his cane tighter as the man standing behind Ted spoke up. "I think you are failing to see the gravity of the situation, pal. It would be most unfortunate if a tragedy should befall your place of business with no insurance." Ted's fists came up, but the large man stopped him by pressing his cane against Ted's front.

"Now let's not be hasty. You have until the end of the week, and then we'll be back. Think about it, Mister Grant. You have a lot more to lose than a few bags of sand and some sweaty gloves." With that the two men exited, leaving the boxer panting in rage in the middle of his own gym. Shrugging out of his tie and shirt, he decided that tonight wouldn't be for sleeping. He needed to smash his knuckles into something a little more forgiving for a few hours instead.

 

The next morning he opened just like normal, preparing for his first lessons of the day. Much to Ted's surprise, the Babydoll Boxing classes he offered had taken off. Apparently the ladies of the city were looking for ways to feel as tough as their boys overseas. What didn't surprise him was how well they were doing. The dames in this city came from solid stock, and with just a little coaching they'd be fighting fit. Admittedly, he had his eyes on a couple of them in particular. His star pupils. They just had a natural gift for the sport, an innate sense of balance and precision that he was honoured to foster.   
  
Of them all, though, Dinah was his personal favourite. The bright-eyed young florist was going places, but underneath all that well-manicured calm he sensed roiling emotions. That little bird needed an outlet, and he'd do what he could to provide her with one. A laugh escaped him as he sat, musing in his office. If Pop could only see him now, teaching dames to be fiercer than Mom on a bad day. He'd be so proud.   
  
He still had one little problem though. Those goons with the protection racket had been sniffing about, eyeing up the ladies. Ted couldn't let that stand. The broads came here for a sense of safety, and thugs trying to extort money certainly detracted from that. Sighing, he ran a calloused hand through his sweaty mop of curls. What was he going to do about them? He'd have to deal with them. Tonight.

 

As promised, Ted stood in the darkened gym, breathing slowly to quiet his mind late that evening, after everyone had gone home. Tonight he was going to take care of business. He pulled on a dark balaclava, obscuring his face. Part of him wanted the goons to know who was serving up the justice, but he had his business and reputation to consider. Wrapping his knuckles he hit the street. The scuttlebutt around town had the thugs drinking at a dive bar down the street. He'd start there.   
  
Jogging along he went over the plan in his head. Go in. Call them out. Deliver the thrashing. Get out. Simple. Clean. He could manage this. Hopefully there were only one or two of them tonight. Hopefully no one had a gun. Dang but this was stupid. Too late to back out now.  
  
He burst into the bar, glaring darkly around. "Send out Jimmy and his fat friend. You all know who I mean." Lowlifes of various calibre scuttled away, leaving no one but his targets and the seemingly disinterested bartender.   
  
The overweight gentleman looked him over and laughed. "Oh come on now... what's this about?"  
  
Ted growled like a wildcat, raising his fists. "You're gonna stop shaking down the locals. Or you'll get a second visit from me." Not giving them a second chance, he moved in, sending a quick right hook at the man's neck. He swung around while the big guy tried to shake that off, jabbing several lightning fast hits at the slimey Jimmy.   
  
They traded blows for a few moments, but the two paid enforcers couldn't stand up to a championship level boxer on his A game. Huffing, Ted stood over the pair, kicking the fallen fat man. "I'm serious. A second visit from me will put you in the hospital, got it?"   
  
With one last kick in Jimmy's direction, he exited, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. He felt like he'd done well for the evening. Hopefully it would work out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Ted stood at the front door of his gym, smiling affectionately and shaking hands as "his girls" filed out after another successful lesson. The Babydoll Boxing classes were going so well, that he'd had to start up an advanced class. Some of these dames were progressing faster than even the fellas did. He never would have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes.  
  
Though he was fond of his beginner class, these bright young faces were his favourites. Plucky gals with enough vim and vinegar to put old Ma Grant to shame. He watched each of them head off down the street towards home, some in pairs or bunches discussing the lessons of the day.  
  
Finally only one of the young ladies remained, his prize pupil, Dinah. The woman had a left hook that would leave a man breathless. If he was a different man... But he wasn't, and the pretty florist wasn't for the likes of him. Still, he enjoyed their bouts, and she often stayed behind for one on one sparing sessions. Ted had the feeling she was like him. Sometimes she came in with unexplained cuts and bruises, and she knew that there wasn't a fella in the world that would lay a hand on her and not suffer. Still, that was the gal's secret to share or not, so he held his peace. Though his nightly patrols would be more enjoyable with a partner...  
  
There were rumours of several others like him, vigilantes roaming the streets at night delivering justice. A blonde woman, a man with wings, a swift runner, a fella in a cape and tights, someone dressed like a bat or a devil... It was hard to know what to believe anymore. Ted liked the idea that he wasn't alone, though.  
  
These were troubled times, and most of the good men were off overseas, just leaving crooks, and the few that were either injured, too old, or otherwise unqualified to stand in a hail of bullets. Ted had taken too many head injuries over his years as a boxer, they said it was too risky to enlist him. He didn't mind, though. He was serving his country in his own way. Cleaning up the streets so decent folk didn't have to be afraid of the dark.  
  
He gave Dinah his 'good old boy' grin as she set up the ring for their private match. Maybe he'd confide in her and see where that led... Eventually.


End file.
